Another night at the Copper Beech Inn in Ivoryton (named after piano keys,) Connecticut, and we'll head home in the morning. Mark Twain's house in Hartford--let me tell you--was well worth a visit. Not quite as fun, perhaps, as Monticello, but with an animated tour guide and a readiness for stair-climbing, it's a well-spent ticket price.
I gave some serious thought to taking us to Eat, Pray, Love, at a small, but cutely provincial, local theater after dinner but was put off by the 2 hour 13 minute length of the film. Honestly, I just wasn't sure I had the stomach for 133 minutes of self-important Julia Roberts portraying self-indulgent Elizabeth Gilbert. I'd rather watch it at home where I can temporarily stop the playback while I run screaming into the kitchen, kick a few things, and maybe make some popcorn. While some strange and masochistic, but poorly understood, compulsion requires me to put the movie on my Netflix queue, I'm not sure I can appropriately discharge the Julia Roberts frustration anywhere but at home.
Instead, it is possible that I will eat another chocolate chip cookie, purchased this afternoon at the Bishop's Orchard Farm Market. Jeff has given up after 5 minutes of a History Channel program which appears to be about a family of oversized men who like to talk about big things made of metal. Jeff gives up on most t.v. rather quickly, which is a shame in a way, because many of his AD peers find t.v. to be entertaining in the face of a illness that robs them of much else to do. Truthfully, he would not have gotten much out of Julia/Elizabeth on a global traipse to become a deeper, richer, and more sexually fulfilled person-of-abject-perfection, but at least we would have been doing it together. Which seems to work for him. Me, I crave a conversational reciprocity which almost-but-not-quite caused me to join a cluster of fishermen at the bar in the Black Seal Pub in Essex, CT, where we ate too much for dinner tonight.
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